


Quiet Healing

by brisingrdraumar



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angsty Schmoop, Christmas, Fluff, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Sibling Incest
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-01-15
Updated: 2012-01-15
Packaged: 2017-10-29 14:57:23
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,133
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/321100
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/brisingrdraumar/pseuds/brisingrdraumar
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The Holmes boys share a moment in the snow, and Mycroft brings his brother back from his pain.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Quiet Healing

**Author's Note:**

> A/N: Written for the Sherlock holiday card exchange 2010 (http://xmas-xchange.livejournal.com/).

It was around 11:30PM, Christmas Eve when Mycroft went looking for his wayward brother.  After checking the kitchen, the loo and the living room he finally decides to look for Sherlock in the back garden, thinking that maybe the boy will be out beside the tree where they had spread their father’s ashes not three months before. Mycroft grabs Sherlock’s gloves and scarf that rested upon the table by the front door, then heads to the back of the house and the sliding glass exit to the garden, pausing only to throw on and button up the coat he lifts from the banister as he passes the stairs.

 

The lights were off outside, but he could still make out the slightly lanky form of his younger brother, dark against the snow covered lawn and bushes. He was standing exactly where Mycroft had thought he would be: in front of the large silver birch that dominates the garden. _Everyone is a bit awkward when they are teenagers, but he makes it look graceful to be all knees and elbows_ , he thinks, stepping up behind his brother. He lightly touches Sherlock’s arm to get his attention, and when the boy’s face turns to him, startled out of his tear-stained misery, Mycroft’s heart breaks a little.

 

He takes the scarf and wraps it around Sherlock’s neck, tucking it into itself then grasps each of Sherlock’s hands between his own and blows on them gently to warm them up a bit before his slides the boy’s fingers into their respective slots.  _I should have grabbed his jacket as well, he must be freezing._ Mycroft unbuttons his own coat and spreads it wide to accommodate the thin form of his little brother.

 

Sherlock bends enough to bury his face in Mycroft’s throat, and wrapping his arms around his brother’s waist he sobs quietly. The tears cool and nearly freeze on Mycroft’s skin, but he pays them no mind, content to stand there and cradle Sherlock, trying to bring him back from his sadness.

 

“Hush now, Sherlock,” he breaths into his brother’s ear as he strokes his hair with one hand and clutches the coat closed with the other, “look at you, you’re half frozen. Let’s get you inside and have a cuppa, hmm?”

 

“Mummy doesn’t care like he did. Father looked out for me even when I didn’t want him to; he stayed with me when I tried to push him away. Mummy leaves because she thinks that I really want her to. She’s wrong. Father knew. Father was the only one who _always stayed,”_ Sherlock’s voice breaks on the last word, and lets loose a sob that hurts so much that it feels like it came from Mycroft’s own chest.

 

“I’ve never left. I will always stay, Sherlock. I will always stay with you,” the promise fell unbidden from Mycroft’s lips but try as he might, he can’t regret it, and he knows that as long as he breathes he will carry out the quiet oath. Mycroft isn’t one for attempting to predict the future, or any other such nonsense, but he knows in his heart that if he were to even _think_ of abandoning his brother, that the memory of Sherlock’s wet cheeks pressing into the hollow of his throat, Sherlock’s hunched back shivering with cold and loss, Sherlock’s gloved fingers tightening on his ribs would bring him to his knees and away from such thoughts.

 

“Do you promise? Do you promise to always be there to look out for me? Even when I tell you to bugger off? Because that is when I’ll need you most, Mycroft. Do you promise…for always?” Never had Mycroft heard Sherlock’s voice so imprecise, so small, so…broken.

 

“I will. I promise. As long as you promise to never forget your coat, scarf and gloves when you go out in the winter again. Will you promise that for me? I will always stay with you; always protect you, if you always look after yourself too. Do you promise, Sherlock? To look after yourself as well?” He feels Sherlock flex his fingers inside his gloves as he burrows his head a little lower into Mycroft’s collar.

 

“I swear to never leave without my coat, scarf and gloves in the winter again.” _That isn’t exactly what I meant, but it’s probably best to not push it now._

_  
_

Mycroft runs his nose along the black curls resting near his shoulder and gazes up at the tree, and what he sees there surprises a chuckle out of him, “Sherlock, look at what is clustered in the branches of father’s tree!”

 

Sherlock tilts his head to the side, keeping contact with Mycroft, and rolls his eyes skyward then widens them in shock, “Mistletoe? Mistletoe has never grown on this tree. Father always lamented it. Do you remember?”

 

“Of course I do, but it is undoubtedly here now.”

 

“Father loved mistletoe,” Sherlock finally raises his head, forehead inches away from Mycroft’s, and Mycroft notices how beautiful his brother is, how his pale eyes catch the soft winter moonlight and how his cheekbones cast delicate shadows along his jaw, “should we bring it in?”

 

“No,” Mycroft breathes, barely able to speak with this sudden revelation, “leave it here with father.”

 

“But won’t it be wasted?” his curiosity tickles Mycroft’s lips with the soft exhale, and Mycroft brings both hands up to stroke the very cheekbones he was just admiring.

 

Leaning in he whispers gently, “we will make sure it isn’t wasted,”  and he eased his mouth onto Sherlock’s own, warming his brother’s frigid lips with his breath and letting him soak in his heat through this vulnerable, intimate point of contact.

 

The kiss was simple and chaste, nearly fraternal in its sweetness, but not entirely. Sherlock doesn’t pull away like Mycroft thought he might, but instead leans in, sharing breath with his brother and absorbing all of the warmth and affection he possibly could in this deceivingly everlasting moment.

 

And when they disengage, cheeks and noses pressed tight against those of the other, Sherlock whispers one small word, timid in its hopefulness, “always?”

 

“Always.”

 

There is nothing else to say as nothing more needs to be said. A pact to heal bruised souls, uphold to nestle fragile bonds.  The next morning there will likely be no talk of the kiss they shared, but for them the experience is enough. When Mycroft looks at Sherlock next he will know that he singlehandedly put light back into his pale eyes, and Sherlock will know that he has Mycroft for _always_. It is a bittersweet Christmas for the Holmes boys, but from now until their end they will have their quiet midnight embrace in the snow, a small but satisfying taste and a healing oath. Always.

 

The End

**Author's Note:**

> Hit me up on [my Tumblr](http://aconitebite.tumblr.com) if you so desire (I'm not gonna lie...it's mostly slash with the occasional cute animal and gay porn .gif).


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